


Crowley: Very Possibly the Worst Demon Ever

by NotTotallyReal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Other, Yeah this is just dark guys, basically the author is depressed and that pretty much summarizes the whole thing, low self worth, serious angst, ummm vauge sex related things, yeah i am SO bad at tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27470128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotTotallyReal/pseuds/NotTotallyReal
Summary: Crowley struggles with suddenly having everything he's ever wanted all at once.This is definitely dark and doesn't end happily so if you don't want that right now, don't read this.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	Crowley: Very Possibly the Worst Demon Ever

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even sure why I'm posting this but hey, it's anonymous so yeah..

Aziraphale is all around him. 

He breathes the angel’s scent in shaky gasps, feels his hands on his own sweat-slicked skin, listens to the hitching rhythm of Aziraphale’s lungs. 

Crowley cries. 

He doesn’t want to, he really wishes he could stop, really wishes the bed would open up and swallow him into inky darkness. 

But his wishes are rarely answered. 

So Crowley cries. 

He tries to stop, but that only makes him start hiccuping, and now he’s a complete mess of a demon. Sobbing in Aziraphale’s bed, dirtying the sheets with sulfuric tears. He doesn’t understand why he is here, why Aziraphale wants him, especially these wet, fleshy bits that repulse Crowley even when he’s using them to feel something other than loneliness. 

Crowley laughs at the humans, writing poetry and songs about how lonely they are. 

They don’t know _anything_ about being lonely.

Crowley knows.

Crowley knows how rejection can be delivered with a determined but nonetheless tremulous smile. 

Crowley knows what it feels like to have an angel help you find all the pieces of your heart. 

It feels so good Crowley is going to throw up. It hurts so bad Crowley is going to laugh. It tears him apart, and Crowley is going to help. 

Aziraphale wants to put him back together. Doesn’t he know a broken pot will be cracked when you glue it together?

Aziraphale thinks he is a precious book that he can fix. Slowly, he’ll remove the spine, putting a new one in carefully. With steady hands, he’ll clean the pages. Then, he will take out all the parts that are molded, or gone, or unreadable. Unblinking, he’ll replace everything, making the book perfect.

Crowley isn’t a book. He’ll never be good again. 

Crowley is sorry for loving Aziraphale. He’s even sorrier that he can’t seem to stop. Every kiss is an apology, every act of service going towards the Debt. When Aziraphale smiles at him, or brings him coffee just the way he likes it, or braids his hair in the sunlight, Crowley catalogs it.

Someday, Crowley will work off the Debt. 

When he dies to protect Aziraphale. 

Until then, there is a ledger in his mind. Two columns, six thousand years. A wing over his head on one column, devotion on the other. A sheepish grin as Aziraphale holds a cup of wine, the sweetest things in London on the other. A hand on his arm when he’s drunk, the singed soles of his feet. The angel saying “I love you too, my dearest Crowley,” in one column, anything he will ever want in the other.

Crowley spends a lot of time looking in the mirror. Some of it is practice for temptations, some of it is Pride and Vanity. When he’s happy he poses and sings and grins fiercely at his reflection, a look in his eyes of crazed confidence.

Other times, Crowley looks in the mirror and reminds himself _He’ll never want you._

_Look at you. You’re the sticks and stones that will break his bones, but his words will always hurt you. You’re nothing. Can’t you see that? Look closely. Snarl at your reflection all you want._

_You can’t hide from what you are._

_Do you know what you are? Sometimes you forget._

_Don’t worry. He’ll remind you._

Crowley growls at his reflection, an inch from the mirror’s surface. His vision crosses out, becomes blurry, as snake eyes struggle to work without distance. Crowley pulls back, and as his reflection blurs and stumbles, Crowley can see a fleeting glimpse of beauty. Before his eyes refocus, he reminds the hazy Crowley in the mirror that Aziraphale loves him. Crowley in the mirror chuckles then darts forward like he’s going to burst through the glass. Instead, he asks, “Why?”

And now he’s crying in the bed because Aziraphale is trying to love him. Again. 

The angel stills, quietly murmuring, ”Crowley?” as a gentle hand cups the demon’s face.

Crowley shuts his mouth, the occasional sob still forcing its way through his lips, leaving him gasping for air. 

Aziraphale’s wings rush out, curling over them, soft and Holy and gleaming. 

“Stop it,” Crowley whispers.

Aziraphale asks, “W-what? I’m not doing anything, dear.”

“Stop trying to fix me,” Crowley whispers, louder. 

“I’m not trying to fix you, darling,” Aziraphale whispers as kisses Crowley’s throat, hot and hungry. 

“Ah-yes you are!”

Aziraphale pulls back. “Crowley, what’s wrong? Let me help, tell me what this is about, please, my dear.”

Crowley struggles to sit up. “I already told you,” he grumbles. “Stop trying to fix me.”

Aziraphale looks like he’s about to argue, or maybe pout, or maybe ignore the whole thing and make some tea. 

“Can’t you just accept I’m broken?” Crowley throws at him, his words jumbling and jangling on the way from his mind to his mouth. “I’ve asked you before, Angel. Please just let me do all that, and then I’ll make it up to you later. Don’t I make it up to you later?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies, hesitant. “But I really think we should have, well, some sort of discussion, you know.”

“No! Look, when I say I don’t want to talk about it, I mean I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not a ploy to get you to ask about how I’m feeling, Aziraphale. I really do not want to talk about it. It’s not too much to ask, right? Please, Angel. Just leave it alone, and I’ll make it up to you tenfold.”

“All right, dear. If it’s what you really want.”

Crowley smiles in relief and pushes down everything else. It doesn’t matter that everything hurts. He knows it would be worse if Aziraphale tried to help.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Let me know your thoughts on this if you want!
> 
> This is sort of a companion piece to another short fic/character study I wrote about Aziraphale. Here's the [link](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27573283) if you'd like to check it out.


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